A Christmas Collection
by BrokenKestral
Summary: A collection of Christmas one-shots (well, sometimes two-shots). Chapter 9: A lesson in celebrating Christmas with Marshwiggle pessimists, Part II. Merry Christmas Eve!
1. A New World

**Disclaimer: Christmas is a gift given to the whole world, and Narnia has become the same. I can scarcely claim something owned by the world, can I?**

**Beta'd by trustingHim17, and Merry Christmas to all!**

**A New World  
**(How does Father Christmas know where and who to visit?)

OOOOO

Have you ever been to the North Pole, to Father Christmas' house? Oh, Grandchild, it's a wonderful place. It's full of wonderful people and wonderful things, with white pillars holding up the roof of the basement, all wrapped in circling red ribbons till they look like candy-canes, and, one year, after a bad snowstorm, when the basement, well, the whole house, had to be rebuilt, the giggling elves (not like Tolkien's elves at all, but still a treat to meet) painted the entire ceiling to look like a summer field held up by candy canes. Somehow Father Christmas made it smell like peppermint and lavender mixed, and a breeze from the fans below blows through sometimes. Mrs. Claus goes down there when she's worn out.

Yes, that's where they make all the good and lovely things. They love to sing, down in the basement, but they love it more when a human joins them, for their voices are little high, piping things, and they say a human voice, even the voice of a little girl, sings lower than their voices can reach. They sing in time to their hammers clinking, their paintbrushes swishing, or their saws cutting. They make the most marvelous things.

But there was one thing, my dear, that was my favorite. One thing, because my godfather, C.S. Lewis, managed some magic of his own that reached all the way to the North Pole.

Father Christmas had - or rather has, since there's no reason he would have lost it (he's very careful, unlike some careless children I know) - a magical map. He has many magical things, but there is one that is unrolled every year the day after the New Year. It is a very large map. It covers the floor of the entire room, and is dotted with planets. Anytime Father Christmas bends down and touches one, that one grows large enough to fill the entire parchment, my dear. I saw him do it. He touched Earth, since that's where I was from, and it grew and grew and grew, and one side of it was dark, and the other side as lifelike as you please. When he wants it to, the planet obligingly turns so he can view any part of it he wants. He uses the map to count the children he'll be visiting, you see, and sometimes, if there's a child where he doesn't know what they want yet, or if he has to figure out what an adult wants for them, he does something very special. He reaches forward, bent over his large, red-clothed stomach, and presses a continent with his thumb. It grows bigger, and bigger, and he reaches forward again and presses a city, then a street, then a house, and then he sits back in his rocker and watches, studying people. Why? Because he has to know them to give them good gifts, you see. And he uses the map every Christmas morning, with the biggest smile on his face (Mrs. Claus told me), to watch some of the children play with their new Christmas toys. He enjoys seeing others have fun. Yes, just like me, my child.

But this particular year, when I visited, he was all business. Yes, children, even Father Christmas must deal with business sometimes. He was making sure he remembered each child for the coming Christmas. I don't believe he's forgotten one yet. But still he makes his list, and he checks it twice, every single year. At the moment of this story, he was still working through the first check.

And then he bent over the map, frowning in concentration. He looked at his list. He looked back at the map. He adjusted his glasses and peered more closely. He really thought—ah, he found it. A new planet on his map.

"My dear!" he called to his wife, while I watched him straighten up, beaming. "We have a new world to visit!" He stooped closer, eyeglass nearly touching the tiny print. "I do believe it's called Narnia."

OOOOO

**Response to Anonymousme: I'm not sure that story of the unhappy faun is one I'd like to read - I've lost enough heartbreaking stories no longer appeal to me. But thank you for offering to look it up. I would actually surmise that part of the family being turned to stone might be more common, because I'm guessing not the entire family went to fight, and a lot of the statues in her courtyard would have been from the battle against her that Giant Rumblebuffin was a part of. You know, I don't think I've ever read a fanfiction of that attack, have you?**


	2. A New World Part II

**Disclaimer: Christmas is the season of giving, not claiming; I do not own this story, and yet I'm giving it away to anyone who cares to read it.**

**Beta'd by trustingHim17, and she made it much, much better.**

**A New World Part II  
**(There's always a first visit to a new world.)

Many people wonder how Father Christmas manages to visit all the children of the world celebrating Christmas in one night, but a lot fewer have wondered how he visits every _world_ that celebrates Christmas in one night. It's quite the undertaking, and the one time I asked him to explain it to me, his eyes twinkled, and he told me he'd explain it if I wished to take his job and give him his own, non-Christmas holiday. As that means there'd be no more time for writing, I declined. He laughed.

I don't think he meant it anyway - about explaining. He loves Christmas far too much, and so much of Christmas joy springs from mystery. And one of his greatest thrills (for he retains the joy of the heart of a child) is exploring a new world as it celebrates its very first Christmas.

This would be a short visit, Father Christmas knew, but he was smiling in merry anticipation. This new world had doors to other worlds, but they hadn't been found yet, and much of this realm was empty. So it was he bore gifts for only one place in the whole flat expanse. (Though he did take the long way to it; it was a new world, ho ho ho! For he loved new things, and there's few things better than exploring an entirely new world.) And not many gifts at that, but he smiled to think of the ones he had—a book of jokes for the Jackdaw, who would make his own new jokes as he tried to turn the pages, a new bees' nest for the Bears in a place warm enough it would survive, and a pink bow for the Elephant's neck, as she liked to look her best.

He slipped them in to the sleeping nests, caves, and various homes, but to his surprise he found them all empty.

Ah, but of course. This was their first Christmas, and Narnians would want to be together. Probably learning from the King and Queen about what this holiday was, and why they celebrated it. Father Christmas chuckled. He could picture King Frank telling the story he'd heard since he was just a little boy, and the animals listening with eager anticipation - and, of course, interrupting. No doubt they'd want to know why the animals in the stable didn't scold the innkeeper, and Father Christmas wished he'd been there to hear the new King's explanation!

He picked up his reins and went to his favorite new stop, the one he'd saved for last.

King Frank and Queen Helen's home, with their newborn child, living in a small, cozy wooden home in the middle of a clearing.

He'd known the two of _them_ for their entire lives, of course, and Strawberry (_bless me, it's Fledge now, I must remember!_) had been a gift he'd given to the former cabby many years ago, with the help of young Frank's parents. Father Christmas chuckled to himself. He did like to see his presents kept well through the years; and Aslan had made Strawberry—Fledge—a very great gift indeed. He pulled the reins.

"Stop Dasher! Stop Blitzen!" he called softly. The reindeer stopped, stamping, even dancing, with excitement, and he laughed as he swung his black boots into the crisp snow and pulled his bag over his shoulder. He ran his hand over the reindeer on his side of the sleigh as he passed them, feeling their warm fur tremble with excitement under his hand. There was something about this new world that they loved.

But time to ask them that later. Quietly, Father Christmas crunched through the snow, circling the small clearing. The new Narnians were huddled together, some of them in newly erected shelters, and sleeping quite soundly. They were worn out from their first Christmas, but on each face was a look of peace and joy.

All the sleeping ones, that is. An Owl, watching from the trees, was watching him. Father Christmas smiled, nodding. What do you know, he thought to himself. Narnia is a place where I can be seen. Oh, this will make for some lovely traditions. But he still had one more visit, and he turned his attention to the royal home.

He shook his head; the Dwarves had made a fireplace for the King and Queen that had no true chimney. Narnia would have its own traditions about his entrance, and tonight was the night to begin them. The windows were far too small, and this was a welcoming country. Perhaps, in this world, he would use the doors? He set his hand on the wood, slipping though the unlocked opening as silently as England's stars shone.

Ah, there, across the room, was the cradle, set by the window. Father Christmas hummed happily, reaching into the bag and pulling out a metal ball. Cut into it, the edges carefully dulled for a child, were the constellations, and on one side was an opening within which to place a candle, when the child was older. For now, it made a good teething toy, and Father Christmas set it by the sleeping child's head, bending down to bless him with a kiss, his white beard falling on the cradle's wooden side.

Still humming happily, Father Christmas turned, and went to Queen Helen's cooking area. Already the Narnians had made her pots and pans, knives and spoons, but there was one thing they had forgotten, and Father Christmas withdrew a large, smooth rolling-pin from his bag, with bows tied on either end, and set it where she would see it when she came down to make breakfast.

Next, the King. Father Christmas smiled to himself. If the person giving the gift had a little wisdom, a King is easier to give a gift to than a Cabby. A King may often be able to gain what he wants, but he has so much more he needs. Father Christmas reached deep into his bag. Where was it, he should be able to feel it—no, that's the hard metal of a sheathed dagger, the smooth rim of a horn, where is it? Ah, here it is! In the bottom corner, of course! His fingers felt the smooth, worn cover, the crumpled page corners, and he withdrew the book with a smile. It wasn't much to look at. Foolish folk would say it had no place in the palace of a king! But here, in King Frank's homey cottage, the tattered diary fit perfectly as Father Christmas laid it on the table where King Frank would sit. The merry old man thumbed the pages, smiling. It was King Frank's own diary, filled with misspellings that gradually grew scarcer as the years went on; but it was a reminder of where the King (and Queen!) came from, and that was a good thing for a King to look back on.

And King Frank and Queen Helen would laugh till they cried at the stories written inside it. Father Christmas had rescued it from a garbage pile after the distant relatives had emptied the deserted house. Not all the best gifts are made by Elves, Father Christmas thought as he gave the book one last touch. Some are what the person makes his own blessed self!

"'Ello?" said a sleepy male voice from the door to the other room, and Father Christmas turned, smiling again. Apparently Narnia was a land where he could be seen, he thought as he put a finger to his lips, smiling at the half-awake King.

Good, that! It made the present for the next morning much easier! Father Christmas turned to the door, slipping through it again, and running to the sleigh. From his bag he drew tray after tray, a feast, and tables and chairs as well, and by the time the astonished King made it to the door, a feast had been set up in the front yard, scarlet ribbons fluttering over the snow, a feast for all the Narnians to wake up to on their first Christmas. Oh, yes, it was a good first Christmas, and a good tradition to start! Father Christmas swung himself up in his sleigh, nodded to the King and called, in memory of another tradition, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"*

OOOOO

*From "A Visit from St. Nicholas, 1823" by Clement Clarke Moore.


	3. A Wisely Given Gift

**Disclaimer: I don't own Narnia, Christmas, or any of the other stories I've slipped into this tale. Can you find them all, do you think?**

**Beta'd by trustingHim17, and a Merry Christmas from both of us, and from all the fictional characters you love!**

**A Wisely Given Gift**  
(Father Christmas muses on why Aslan chose those first two gifts for Lucy.)

I have given many gifts. Perhaps you remember yours, maybe from last year. One that made you smile, the moment you opened it? Ah, yes, you remember it!

Yes, I've given many gifts. Useful things, pretty things, fun things on occasion. Ho ho ho. Funny things they were too. There was one time I gave an old man a visit from three ghosts, and wasn't that a surprise!

Oh, I remember them. Each and every one. Gift giving, it's an art, you see. Don't you, my dear? Yes, your mother is quite gifted in that art too. I've practiced it long, very long, as many years as Christmas has existed. I remember every gift because I love the art of gift-giving.

The ones I remember best, well, they become part of stories. You like stories; I know you do, I gave you that book you love. Why yes, that one right there. Let me feel it. There it is, elven-made binding; they love gluing the pages, the little things. Yes, stories are a wonderful thing. And there's times I'm told to give gifts, you know, and almost all of those gifts lead to good stories.

An example, you say? Hmmm, let me see. Well there's that one—but it'd be Christmas before I finished in the telling of it! All about helping a crotchety old man give gifts to his neighbor, a mother with a husband gone to a war, and left with four daughters. I got the man's grandson Laurie involved, and you see—well, bless me, if I haven't started telling it! No, that story's too full of people to be summed up. You're too young to appreciate a long story just about people right now. I'll give you that story another Christmas.

But there's another—no, that one doesn't have any adventure. Ho ho ho, you'd be glad of an adventure yourself, wouldn't you! Let me think, let me think; ah, yes. Just the story for a young girl like you, for it's about a young girl too.

There's another land, one you've never heard of, called Narnia. I love that land. It's a land where the ones in it accept all good things, and since I'm on the side of good myself (it's the wise side to be on, you know, my dear; everyone knows that at Christmas!), it's a land where I may be seen. Bless me, the greetings I get! The sniffing, the squeals, the welcoming music, and the love - ah, the love, my child. It's heard there as clear as the taste of it in cookies a child bakes herself.

But I was banished from that land, the land of Narnia. Oh, my dear, it can happen. Lands where good remains praised are often attacked by evil, and when evil wins, why, good things are no longer welcome. I tried to get in one year, and the reindeer staggered, breaking off in either direction, and I - I fell off. I landed on my back in the snow and lay there, catching my breath. (I was driving in from its neighbor, Archenland, you see.)

Oh, my dear, do not tense up! Evil exists in all the great stories, for men and beasts do not truly know their own worth till it has been tested against evil. I may know it, as I know yours-yes, you, Matilda, for you will have a very large story-just think, young as you are, you already figured out a way to my home in the North Pole! Yes, you're very smart, and will have a lot of other nasty Agatha's to fight through your life. I'm glad you won, too.

That time, evil had triumphed, and I was banned from Narnia. Every year, for a hundred Christmases, I went to the border of Narnia after Archenland. I would press my red-mittened hands against the barrier she had made, just for me, the evil Witch, and sometimes, my dear, I don't mind telling you, I was hard pressed not to cry. It is a hard thing to be banned from helping.

But then, one day - and it was in the middle of Spring, mind you! Not Christmas at all! - the roar of the Lion echoed through the house, and I jumped out of my rocking chair and ran to my study. And there He waited for me, the Great Lion, the Giver of the Greatest Gifts, and the Orchestrator of all battles against evil. He was going to Narnia. Her barrier couldn't keep Him out. Nothing could! And where He went, I could follow.

He was faster, of course. I had so many things to pack, and lists to make to remember everything, and so much joy I couldn't do any of it for laughing! I was stumbling over my own feet and belly, and Mrs. Claus was darting about while dabbing her cheeks with her handkerchief, doing a million things I was laughing too hard to do - she always does, my blessed wife. It took a bit - Christmas does, like any gift! But oh, the joy of doing it! And I stuffed it all in my bag, and Mrs. Claus slipped in a snack, and I was ready to be off.

But she caught me by the arm. "You forgot the special gifts, my dear," she told me, and blessed if I hadn't! I forgot to mention, when the Great Lion came (and I knew it was Narnia He came for, for there He is a lion, the Lion), He told me about gifts for four children, very specific gifts. And one of them was for a little girl, about eight years old.

There was a metal dagger in a red sheath, for she was in a land where evil was still strong. And she had a spirit to fight it. Do you know, when I gave it to her, she asked me if she couldn't fight in the battle, for she thought she might be brave enough. She was a Queen who rushed to help of any person, be it man or beast or tiny bird, in need of a champion.

And so I gave her the other present, a small diamond battle filled with juice from the fire-flowers of the sun. A single drop could cure any hurt. I remember Aslan slipping more into a well at an old half-dwarf woman's house, later on. But the Queen was given a whole bottle, for she had a spirit to fight but a heart to heal. Oh, she was a lovely thing.

And she would need both, but especially the latter. Eh? Why? Oh, her siblings! I only met two of them that year - that's another story, about the fourth - but two of them needed healing as often as any other person she knew! Indeed, her brother was the first to use it. She'd gone with Aslan Himself and had seen what death was. She knew what she was fighting, young as she was. And Aslan took her from there to a place where she could see life restored, for there were stone statues everywhere, and Aslan brought them to life again! And, seeing death, and then seeing life triumph, He took her to a battlefield. There she found the fourth sibling terribly wounded, and rushed to his side, letting one of those drops fall into his lips. From there, at Aslan's bidding, she went and fought death all over the battlefield.

Ah, yes, she got her battlefield, as she'd asked, but not to fight their enemies, not yet. Not till she was older. She fought death itself instead.

And her the youngest. Aslan made her the youngest, you know, He did, but gave her the power to save those older than her all the same.

She's not in Narnia any more now. I stop by her house sometimes, but I never let her see me, not any of them. And of all the gifts I gave her, in Narnia or here, I think I like those two gifts the best.

OOOOO

**A/N: So...I have an idea for Peter's gifts, in this vein, at least, and a very, **_**very**_** vague idea for Edmund's, but I've also three other ideas for Christmas stories, and I was wondering whether people were more interested in this or in new ideas, such as Christmas for the captives before Prince Caspian, or a companion piece for Rhindon?**

**Response to Anonymousme: As long as you make sure you keep the fanfiction beginnings you write - you'll be glad for it, I think, if you start writing fanfiction. You're welcome to leave them anytime. There's been a few stories that did the same for me - I wrote "Are there happy endings?" after reading Drag0nst0rm's work - so you're welcome to do that anytime you like. Thank you for noticing the commas; those were intentionally left out as they would cause the reader to hear the words with less urgency. We've those who love Christmas (that group does include me) and those who get rather impatient with it in our family, but Christmas wouldn't be the same unless all of us were there. A Merry Christmas to your household as well!**


	4. Christmas for the Captives

**Disclaimer: the characters were invented by Lewis, Christmas by those who wanted to adopt formerly pagan holidays, and the art of writing probably by the Egyptians or earlier nations. I'm just leaning on numerous legacies.**

**Beta'd by trustingHim17 - thank you!**

**Christmas for the Captives**

(Even after they were conquered, Christmas came for the Narnians in hiding.)

Those conquered years weren't like the winter the White Witch kept me out. She kept me out for a very long time, and I saw the suffering but could not share in it, nor make it better.

Still, Aslan knows best. The first time I came back to Narnia, the time her power broke, I had so much to give, and it eased my heart to see the Narnians become so merry.

The Telmarines had no power to keep me out. And how those Old Narnians, as they were called, needed cheer! But cheer I had to spare, for Aslan gifted me with much.

The first gift I gave, that first year and all the years following as it was needed, was to all of them. The elves attached long branches behind the sleigh, and for hours on Christmas Eve the reindeer walked through the woods as we erased all the Old Narnians' tracks. Back and forth, through the trees, the bells muted and the reindeer silent, slipping unseen around the camps of conquerors.

As we worked, others worked also, oh, with such fun, and muffled giggles! I set the elves to playing pranks on the Telmarine soldiers. They choose if humans may see them or not, and that night, all the elves were invisible. They were laughing in their high-pitched voices as they used every naughty trick they had ever learned from disobedient children on the humans who couldn't see them. Boots were laced together, weapons driven into tent poles, food upended on unsuspecting faces, snow poured down backs inside chain mail, and pillows shaped like human bodies in every shady corner. Shrieks of surprise, then fear, followed the giggling group, echoing in the woods, and the woods themselves lightened at the sound of laughter and the fearful turning cowards. Soon the soldiers all fled the woods, telling stories of ghosts. The Old Narnians would be safe, that Christmas. I complimented the beaming elves and sent them home. That was a merry Christmas for them, every year they came to play those pranks! Mrs. Claus was very clear none of those were welcome back in the North Pole!

Then it was time, oh, that glorious time, to deliver presents. Once again, the sleigh bells rang out merrily, calling to the Narnians. The bells told them that this night they need not hide! First came the Fauns, those who heard and understood music so well! Few put hand to their instruments that night, too unused to carrying them. But no matter! By the music of a few they danced under the snowy trees, calling to mind the great Snow Dance of the older times. It was a time of memory, and of hope. They hoped for a future when those dances would once again be held openly.

One year, one sad, cold year, the hope and cheer of Christmas time was needed more than most. The dance went on, but few joined. Those tired from the dance came near, and found their presents sitting near the sleigh I had just finished unpacking. The reindeer, unhooked and content, watched, reminding them with quiet confidence that they were safe this night. With a laugh I handed the presents out, and with brightened looks they took them. Their faces shone in the starlight as I handed out new instruments, undamaged books, and checkered tablecloths - the things they missed from their former homes. Things to remind them they might have a future home.

That year the music and dancing called out Pattertwig the Squirrel. He sat first on the tree-branch, staring in amazement; then off he ran like a mouse before a hawk, or the bringer of good news, and back with him came a storm of Squirrels, running down the trees and straight to the sleigh, sitting up and watching with their little black eyes and smart faces, and swarming up the wheels as soon as I gave permission! For Squirrels are as curious as elves! To them I gave new holes in old trees, safe places to store their nuts, and for it they thanked me gravely, before scattering to summon all the Old Narnians.

They were followed by the Centaurs, Glenstorm and his three sons first of the group. They trotted into the clearing, bowing with the gravity of prophets. To them I gave the news that Old Narnia was safe for the night. Glenstorm bowed his head as the weight of their task lifted, for to them often looked the Narnians fleeing in fear. But for this night, I would lead, and I led to laughter.

To all the Old Narnians, to the three Bulgy Bears, to the Dwarves, to Trufflehunter, the Moles, the Hares, the Hedgehogs, I gave a feast on tables decorated in holly, filled with snacks with honey, plum pudding, acorns, and all the things all their races loved to eat. Together they built a large bonfire in front of the table, the light from its flames flickering over the snow, and the warmth washing over us all, and the Fauns' music making quick work of the task! The fire banked, they settled down to feast and the laughter soon followed.

To the Mice who came late, having far to travel on short legs, I had one more gift. They arrived, Reepicheep at their head, hailing me with shrill voices. Giving merry greetings, I bent to their level and held out my hands, which were filled with small swords fit to their size and sheathed in red leather. With eager paws they seized them, buckling them on and swiftly drawing them, turning to each other with eager readiness to practice. They fought rather than eating that night, grins on their faces and pride in their hearts. Their small size left no room within them for fear. I laughed to see them, in their small but fierce fury, to see their taste for deeds valiant and obstacles larger than Giants. Eating, the other Narnians laughed with me, and the Dwarves themselves came to test the smith-craft, and learn how to forge such little weapons. The elves would jump on their bouncing feet when I told them the compliments, I knew, and, smiling, I too sat down to feast.

The feast lasted through the night and into the early morning. Gradually all the Old Narnians fell asleep, safe in each other's company and glad of it. I watched over them that night, for joy exists in rest as well as in work. They woke on Christmas morning, and into their hands I pressed gifts for their children, the Narnians who could not come, and the Narnians too far for Pattertwig to reach. Their thanks filled my ears as they slipped away, one by one, till the clearing stood empty, the fire a circle of ashes in the middle and the food consumed.

I sighed with contentment as I got in the sleigh, ready to head home to my wife, for I knew I had given the gift I truly wanted to give that night - a time where joy drove out fear.


	5. A Gift Regifted

**A Gift Regifted**

(It was really meant for Peter. Companion piece to "Rhindon.")

**Disclaimer: I've no more idea of what heaven looks like than the next person, and ignorant people really shouldn't try to write a clear picture of what they know next to nothing about, but here I am, doing it anyway, with what doesn't belong to me.  
****Please understand that I have no idea of any of this will be **_**true**_**, once heaven comes, and that's not what I mean to imply by writing the story!**

**Beta'd by trustingHim17, who pointed out a great discrepancy I hopefully took care of!**

**A/N: This is a sequel piece to "Rhindon," but really the only thing you need to know from that story is that Father Christmas rescued Rhindon when the world fell to the great creatures from under the earth, bringing it to Aslan's Country. This is the story of him regifting it to Peter - along with other gifts.**

"Father Christmas?"

"Yes, child?"

"What happened to Peter's sword? After you saved it?"

"Oh, I gave it back to him, ho ho ho, and surprised he was to get it! Now, let me see, the workshop is tidied, the dishes are put away, and I've got my pipe - yes, now might be a very good time for a story. Would you like to hear it? You see, child…

* * *

All good things exist in Aslan's Country, and Christmas is a very good thing. Now, it may not be done the way our Christmases are done, or even the way Narnian Christmases used to be done! But I'm not going to tell you of the differences. You'll have to find them out for yourself.

But there was one year that I was chuckling, particularly pleased with myself. I (gently, you know!) snapped the reins to move the reindeer faster. Oh, how they love to fly! And I wanted the speed, for I had a very, very special gift to deliver. And so we flew to Aslan's Country.

Ah, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself! Yes, laugh, for laughter is good! There were other things to collect along the way as well. A dagger, sheathed now but for play (there is no need for defense in Aslan's Country!), a diamond bottle, empty, for there was no more need for it, a horn that would summon loved ones but no longer called for help, a bow and arrows that would no longer be put to use, and a tattered blue scarf with three distinct sections, knitted by three siblings for a younger King's first real Narnian Christmas. I'd put them away a long while ago, dusty in one of the sheds I keep around the North Pole. I knew as I retrieved them that I wouldn't need them for many years. But now I did, and away we flew! Rudolph knew the way so well we were there before I caught my breath! But I got out of the sleigh, and into the shed the third one down from the reindeer, and added the items to my bag. (Mrs. Claus had already repaired the rips in the scarf.) And _then_ we went to Aslan's Country.

And the way there is secret, but beautiful. It contains all good things, but it also made them all. All good things come out of that Country, and all laughter, and all merriment. One day, when it is all that is left, I will go there to stay.

But this Christmas was merely for a visit, for in that Country I give what has not been lost. And I laughed again, for as the sleigh ran forward, I saw four Kings and Queens, their two parents (I know them well), two Beavers and a Faun. Their heads were up, their faces eager and filled with joy, as their heard the sleigh bells ring. Lucy was the first to spring to her feet, crying "Father Christmas!" as Susan tugged her parents forward, urging them to meet me in person for the first time. I shook hands all round, smiling as Mrs. Beaver asked if I'd brought more material for the dragon on the sail of Caspian's new ship. I had, of course, a gold thread woven with sunbeams that would shine like a setting sun. And Mr. Tumnus got his own scarf and a portrait of his father, for even though he saw his father every day, I knew he'd feel more at home with it. And for Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie, I brought the words of those who knew Susan last in life, the words they spoke of all their daughter had done before her life ended, and how she had touched their lives. I brought word of many of the reasons she had been left for so many years in England before coming here. On hearing they wept tears of joy, for what Aslan had wrought. And then it was time for the other gifts.

Peter had been first, that first Christmas in Narnia, but now I knew he would wish to wait till last, for still his life is spent serving the laughter and life of others. So it was to Lucy I turned first.

"Lucy, Eve's Daughter,"* I called, and she stepped forward with the joy of great and solemn events in her eyes. Were she in another country, she could heal with a look from those eyes alone. I handed to her the bottle I had given so many years ago. "In this bottle there is nothing but the air of Aslan's Country, for never more will you be hurt, or any of your friends be hurt. But I bid you wear it, that all who see it may remember that even in broken worlds, Aslan saved. And this dagger is to practice skills that you no longer need. For there are no more battles."

She looked at me, eyes shining, and took from me what was truly hers. "Why, Sir," said Lucy, "I thank you, for the gifts that made those years better. It is good to be in a place where Death is no longer an enemy, but to remember it is defeated." She curtsied, graceful with the practiced movements of a queen, and stepped back.

"Edmund, Adam's Son," and the Just King stepped forward. "There is no greater gift than the love of God and of His own, and I come bearing a gift that was made and given with love," and I brought out the scarf. I heard his quick intake of air, surprise and wonder in his eyes (he had not seen it since he was a boy, and lost it on a trip to fight the giants one winter), and then the King's smile slowly grew, as he took in the tattered ends and sewn rips.

"Often the most well-worn times are the most loved, and given in love. Thank you, Father Christmas," he said gravely, and stepped back with a bow.

"Susan, Eve's Daughter." The Queen - restored, grace given to her twice-over, and beautiful enough to win a world to peace - stepped forward, dignity in her bearing and welcome in her face. "These are for you," and I handed her first the bow and the quiver of arrows. "They are for you to put to rest, to remember that now all your warfare has ceased." She took them with grace, but held them in her hands rather than slinging them over her back. I handed her then the little ivory horn. "And when you put this to your lips and blow it, then, wherever you are, I think some of Aslan's own will come and walk with you."

"And I never need be alone," she whispered with a smile. "It is good to have a voice that is always heard. Thank you," and she leaned up to give me a kiss on my bearded cheek.

"Peter, Adam's Son."

"Here, Sir."

"These are your presents," I gave him answer. "And they are memories, not weapons. The time to use them is past, and you bore them well." And I handed him a sword, made to fit him even now, and a silver shield with a red, rampant lion. He straightened, eyes at once that of a King who had defended land with soul and body, and who even now commanded its Kings.

"This is my sword, Rhindon. With it I slew the Wolf." His eyes fixed on it, fully King and full of memories, and then he nodded to me. "It is good to feel them again."

"One more gift for you all," I added, feeling a smile beginning to creep over my face. "Tell each other the stories of each gift, and your Christmas will pass in memory and merriment. A Merry Christmas! Long Live the true King, forever He will reign!"

* * *

And then I took the reins, and sent my good friends forward, for there were other gifts to deliver! But the sword you asked about, child, is back in the hands of the High King, and there it will stay forever.

OOOOO

*Much of the dialogue is patterned on or directly quoted from _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_.


	6. The Ghost of Christmas Past

**Once Upon a December**

(Susan remembers other Decembers)

**Disclaimer: Susan, mermaids, **_**A Christmas Carol**_**, Christmas itself, "Once Upon a December" or any other Disney things...words...the alphabet...any large amount of money...any sense of balance or the ability to stay on my feet...just so, the list of things I don't know could go on and on. I have been given some rather fabulous Christmas presents though (my family usually gives them early...months early, if you're my mother, because she gets so excited about them she has to), and I own a library, and God gave me an imagination, and I'm rather happy with the riches I have.**

**A/N: Please be warned, this is not exactly a story of cheer, but of regret, and grief finally becoming tears. It was inspired by my getting "Once Upon a December" stuck in my head one morning for no rational reason my brain can figure out. It also does not include all three ghosts...partly for lack of time, and partly because though I thought of doing a giant and then a Marshwiggle, I wasn't sure where the story would go from here. Maybe next year I'll rewrite it with a different ending, and all three ghosts.**

OOOOO

It was Christmas, it was cold, and Susan Pevensie was in bed.

Her house wasn't decorated. No lights hung from a tree. The house was cold, and it was empty. Susan wanted it that way.

Susan did not want living, colorful reminders of a season in a world that no longer held her loved ones. Susan hated the smiles, the excitement, the _joy _\- they were blows, reminders to her grief that all she had this year were gravestones buried in snow, and memories buried even deeper. She had not cried. She did not cry. She went about life instead, and when she could not distract herself with life, she shut life away from herself. She had gone to bed early, so that Christmas would be over earlier, too. She almost hoped not to wake to it.

But wake she did, and that to the stroke of midnight, and a feeling of small, snow-cold hand patting her leg as its owner laughed. "Susan!" a merry voice cried. "Susan!"

Susan opened her eyes. The voice - the voice was one she knew. Or knew of; had known. She looked and saw a glowing white face, a female face, surrounded by flowing, shining hair. The voice and face were laughing. It shown as if the softest light of the moon had been gathered into this stranger's body. "Susan!" the lilting voice called again, and Susan sat up and rubbed her eyes. For the body was that of a mermaid, floating in the air, shining white, her tale undulating with currents of air Susan could not see.

The way she moved - Susan had seen that before.

"Are you a dream?" Susan gasped.

"No," the merghost sang, eyes merry. "I am a gift!" She held out the hand she had used to wake the sleeping mourner. "Come! I am here to bring you cheer!"

Susan stopped short, the hand she had begun to hold out instantly withdrawn. "I have no wish to be cheered," she said coldly. ""Nor shall I go with you; you are merely a phantom, given form by the grief I have held in, during this season of cheer. Thou art a throwback to childish games, to long-forgotten memories of my mind. Be gone! I seek thee no more."

"Didst not seek me to begin with," the merghost said with a light laugh. "But if all are games, and not true memories, then why, former queen, dost thou speak so? Didst thy games teach thee so much? Then why wouldst thou forget them?" With a gentle flip of her tail she pushed herself higher, her eyes at level with Susan's.

Susan had no answer. She had forgotten those games for a reason, she knew she had; after the funeral of her siblings, she had found herself trying to forget them as well, to erase that pain. She glanced at the shining mermaid, slender fingers still held out, white arm glowing, and hair moving as if the water currents still flowed through it.

"Come!" the mermaid cried again. "I come for your reclamation!" She moved forward, her hand grasping Susan's and pulling her irresistibly to stand on the floor, the woman gasping with shock at the cold floor. "Come with me!"

Together, the merghost's hand still on her arm, the pair headed towards the window, Susan balking at the mysteriously open frame. "I cannot!" she exclaimed, seeing her companion beginning to swim through it. "I do not float on air! I am human, I will fall!"

"Bear but the touch of my hand," her companion replied softly. Susan reached up to take it, but the merghost shook her head, her hair floating across her face at the movement. "No, not to bear the touch on thy hand, Gentle - one. But here," she explained, reaching forward, but stopping just short of touching Susan's heart. "Will you bear my touch here?"

Susan looked to the window, then back to the white face floating before her, and nodded once. The white fingertips reached forward, and the merghost shuddered. "So cold," she gasped, but Susan froze before she could reply, seeing something far over the merghost's floating hair.

They were no longer at the window.

OOOOO

They were in a forest, still in the night. Their surroundings were dimly lit by stars of different constellations.

"Do you know this place?" the sweet, high voice inquired. Susan, wildly looked around at the trees, the snow, and the clear stars singing overhead, drew in a breath.

"Know it!" she cried. "I know it! I know it as well as I know my bedroom; I could dance down this path with my eyes closed." She paused. "I know it," she said more uncertainly. "Don't I?"

"Strange, that you forgot what you once knew so well," the mermaid murmured, floating beside Susan at waist height, her glowing light illuminating the trees.

"I...it was game," Susan muttered. "And this - this is a dream."

"Listen!" the mermaid commanded, rising up at the waist.

Susan listened and heard a strange, heartbreaking song. No, the tune in her ears merely brought the memory of a different song; she could hear it. One that began with her name; one she could almost remember.


	7. The Ghost of Christmas Past Part II

**The disclaimer was far too long in the first chapter, and must suffice for both. It's still true, anyway.**

OOOOO

_Dancing bears,_

_Painted wings_

_Things I almost remember,_

_And a song someone sings,_

_Once upon a December._

Susan turned towards the song, her feet already tracing the path she'd walked hundreds of times before - in dreams, she told herself, and games. This was not real.

And yet she drew in a breath, and the air bit cold, like the sting of water to wake a sleeper. She reached out a hand; the needles did not move beneath the weight of her fingers, but she could feel the smooth lengths and pointed ends.

She knew this. She knew this path, these trees, this _air_. The name she had forbidden from her memory once again crossed her lips; "Narnia," she whispered. She walked faster, breaking into a run, the path illuminated by the glowing figure behind her. Down, down the hill, the grace she had exchanged for a different type of movement these past few years once again coming to the fore as she ran, barefoot, down the hill, her eyes shining.

There, there, there! There, in the opening, in the glen! There the Fauns played, or danced, or bent and scooped up snow; there the Dwarves joined them. There the Dryads came, laughing, bending, shaking the snow from their hair and arms, and there the Bears joined the dance! Snuffling, snorting, lumbering with clumsy movements through their fleet-footed friends, but laughing all the same! They woke every year for this, the snow-dance on Christmas Eve, and then the ball on Christmas Day at Cair Paravel. Susan turned - there, she could see its towers! Cair Paravel, dearer than home! Its halls would be...red, wouldn't they? Red - no, green, with branches, and red ribbons. The birds who stayed would alight on them, their feathers shining in the candlelight like the finest paintings. And there was singing; Susan could hear the singing, the songs during which each person in the Cair joined in, till the halls rang with melody and the stones themselves echoed back the music. It was real, it was true, it was more than they had ever dreamed up -

_Not real_, Susan told herself fiercely. _It wasn't real. It never had been_.

"Come," said a voice behind her, and Susan felt the gentle, snowy touch of the merghost's hand again. Susan blinked, and they were suddenly at the doors of Cair Paravel.

_Someone holds me safe and warm,_

_Horses prance through a silver storm,_

_Figures dancing gracefully across my memory_

Susan glanced around. It was still Christmas; the doors were hung with two large wreaths, a tradition the Narnians had celebrated every year, made by as many hands as could fit around the circle. Trees had been dragged into the courtyard, decorated, and now they sparkled with silver and gold figurines made by the Dwarves. One tree told, in a spinning circle from top to bottom, the story of the four coming to Narnia and Aslan's great triumph over the Witch. Another told the story of one of the Dwarves' greatest heroes; another was decorated solely with lion figurines. Lucy loved that one the most, though she searched in vain to find one that really resembled Aslan.

Susan remembered this. She knew it, knew this Christmas, the memory springing unbidden to mind after years, brought by Narnia's air and the beauty around her. This was the night it had snowed, and the next morning they had all spilled into the courtyard to dust off the trees and their ornaments, laughing as they sprinkled snow over each other. But that meant now-

"Hurry up!" cried a voice as the door swept open, and Susan caught her breath. Edmund. Edmund, older than he had ever looked in England, and yet younger too, eyes dancing with the achingly-familiar mix of impatience and glee. "I'll leave without you all if you can't hurry!"

"Edmund!" remonstrated Peter's voice from inside. "Be patient with your sisters!"

Susan reached out, eyes blurring, for the younger brother who was mock-scowling in the direction of Peter's - Peter's! - voice.

But her hand could no more move her brother than it had the tree needles. She felt his clothing, the warm shirt, but he didn't turn to her.

"These are but shadows of the things that have been," came that sweet, soft, high-pitched voice beside her, and Susan choked at the weeping beauty of it. "They have no consciousness of us."

"I want to touch him." Susan turned to the mermaid floating beside her, pleading. "Just for a moment. Please, please, I never got-" her voice broke. "There were no goodbyes."

"I am sorry," and the mermaid wafted closer, a chilled slender arm gently holding Susan's shoulders, the floating hair a touch like a breeze on her face. "I cannot put you fully in the past, I am not able." Susan bit her lip, trying to think of something, _anything_, but lost all thought when Lucy appeared in the door.

Laughing. Her eyes were full of the joy that reached to and filled her entire soul, and she was smiling at Edmund. "There!" she cried. "I'm done, and Susan almost is, and we'll be off to try out King Lune's present in moments, Ed! And Peter said you could drive first, because I asked him."

"Then come on!" and Edmund reached for his sister - gently, Susan saw, because Edmund was always gentlest with Lucy, the one he had once been so cruel to - and pulled her down the stairs and towards the edge of the courtyard, stopping at the side of a slender, magnificent silver sleigh, with gold leaves patterned all over the side. "Up!" Susan heard Edmund say, and saw him lift his sister into the sleigh.

"They're already inside," Susan heard behind her, and she started, for the cadence was familiar, but the voice so strange! She turned, and jumped again as she saw herself.

It was not the self she saw in a mirror; not even the self she'd seen before-

Before. Not even the reflection from then. This, Susan saw, her eyes blurring again - she blinked them, she needed, she _needed_ to see clearly - this was her at her best, as if someone had taken her personality, her gifts, her soul, and perfected it.

Surely - surely this was more than a game.

"Are you surprised?" asked a voice, and Peter appeared. Peter, smiling at the two younger ones who were now waiving their siblings impatiently forward. "Ed's been hounding us since it arrived this afternoon. I thought he'd take it for a ride all by himself when we said we'd wait till after dinner."

"He was so impatient he forgot his cloak," this other Susan sighed.

"He won't thank you for reminding him; he wants to leave. I think he's leaving now, actually," Peter added dryly, as Edmund gathered up the reins and moved the four horses (not Talking Horses, of course!) forward, sweeping the sleigh up towards the front steps and accidently hitting them with one runner, nearly tilting the sled. Lucy shrieked from the inside, and Peter moved, faster than Susan remembered he could, grabbing the side and dragging it down, the other Susan a few seconds behind him. They'd moved like that - they always had - for their younger siblings.

It hadn't been a dream.

"Careful, Ed!" Peter scolded.

"You almost upset yourself, and Lucy!" Susan added.

"All right, Lu?" Edmund panted, turning around swiftly.

"It's the more exciting way to sleigh," Lucy remarked, smiling cheerfully at him, and at her words the older two began laughing.

"All right, everyone in!" Peter cried. He turned, offering his help to his sister, and soon she was inside, and Peter swung himself over. He sat himself between the two girls, drawing them to him, spreading the blanket over their laps and his, and holding them close. "No we're ready for any mishap! Hullo! Snow!" And he looked up - Susan could see his eyes from where she stood at the top of the steps, contented and happy - and watched the snowflakes. "Drive on, Ed! But don't get us lost!"

"Or Oreius himself will come find us, and we'll spoil his Christmas!" Lucy chimed in, and Edmund lifted the reins once more - more carefully this time, Susan couldn't help but notice. He learned - that is, he always had learned - so quickly from his mistakes. She watched them sleigh out of sight, their laughter carrying back through the courtyard. Her laughter, that queenly laughter mixing so perfectly with the other three - all of that laughter was silenced now.

"Take me away," she whispered, knowing the face so near her own would hear her. "I can bear no more of this. Please take me away."

_Far away,_

_Long ago,_

_Glowing dim as an ember,_

_Things my heart used to know,_

_Things it yearns to remember_

The courtyard faded. "I have one more thing to show you," the mermaid sang. Susan looked around; she thought, knowing all the merghost had showed her, that this too was Christmas, but if it was, it was not one she remembered. They were in one of Cair Paravel's towers, the dark of the night filling it with darkness. There was muted sound below them, and singing, clear-voiced and faint, from above them, but the tower itself was dark.

Then, footsteps. Graceful, swift, and yet, as Susan listened, they stumbled. A sob echoed from the staircase, and Susan turned towards it impulsively, before remembering that this person would neither see nor hear her.

But no one should be unhappy at Christmas. During a Narnian Christmas, Susan added uneasily, aware of her own undecorated house and wish to sleep through this English holiday. But Narnia was different.

A glow, gold, not the white glow of her companion, lit the stairs. The footsteps drew nearer, nearer, and then Susan herself came stumbling through the door. The Susan of England drew back, and the Susan of Narnia ran by, heedless, crying. She reached the window, setting her candle down with shaking fingers, bringing her hands up to her face and covering it.

"When is this?" Susan of England asked the ghost, who was staring at the Susan of Narnia with compassion in her glowing face.

"Two years after Rabadash," the mermaid said, and Susan stiffened. "Many of the Tarkhaans who lost their sons or fathers gathered together as their ruler grew ill and weak, and sent ships to harry the shores of Narnia, hiring pirates as well. Your brothers are there, fighting, and your sister is in Archenland, healing Prince Corin from deadly hurts he earned during one of his misadventures."

"I was alone," Susan remembered, her voice strained. She remembered - dimly - it had been so long ago, and in a place too far - weeping, because her brothers at Christmas fought for their lives, and the cordial was far away. She had been alone, and lonely, and regretting much the folly of her fall for Rabadash.

Had she forgotten so much? Her brothers had tried to bring it to mind, to show her the folly of what she'd sought in England, but she hadn't listened. Narnia had been a _game_, nothing more! They had needed to grow up!

They had died instead, a voice reminded her. And all her grown-up ways were not enough to help her when they did.

In Narnia - this night - Susan had turned to a different help.

"Aslan," the Susan of Narnia prayed, voice breaking. "I pray Thee, be with my brothers this night. Give them the joy that follows Thy presence, the safety that dwells in Thy paws. Aslan, Aslan, help them, far from home. Aslan-"

"Susan," purred a voice. Instantly the Susan of England stiffened, heart pounding, but the Susan of Narnia looked up, hope in her face, and fear fleeing.

"Aslan!" she called, and Susan of England turned towards the mermaid even as a golden light filled the room. "Leave!" she shouted, panic in her voice. "Let me leave now! No more! No, not this! Not this!"

But the mermaid didn't listen, staying just out of reach, eyes filled with that same compassion. Susan fell to her knees, huddled on the floor, as the Susan of Narnia cried the Lion's name one more time in relief. Susan knew that golden light, knew the voice, _she knew Him_.

"Susan," whispered the voice again, and Susan of England knew it was for her, that somehow, somehow, the Lion had found her, Susan of England caught in the past.

"Susan," came her name again, whispered as a song that melded to her heart-beart.

"Susan." It was a song that never ceased, that called through her past, into her present, offering her a future.

"Susan." It was the song sung by a Singer who had sent the ghost of the past to open her ears once again. A song that sounded one more time as the merghost, the light, the past faded, and Susan found herself on her knees, crying, in her own bed once again.

_And a song someone sings_

_Once upon a December_

And so, for the first time, Susan wept. She cried for all the Decembers that were past, and never would be again, and how much her heart missed them. She cried for the laughter that would never ring in this world, the dances that would never be given, that minds that would not here remember the birth of the God they'd grown to love and sing their response to His song. She wept for all the future Decembers she could never have, and all the past ones she'd pushed aside.

And, in the midst of her sorrow, she thanked this God that He gave her back her memory of all she had had.

She had been given the past, and though it brought her to tears in the present, it was something from which to begin her future.


	8. Christmas with the Marshwiggles

**Disclaimer: Narnia isn't mine, I shouldn't think. Nothing that exists ever really is. It all comes to an end anyway.  
****The names Gloomcloud and Doldrum also belong to SouthwestExpat, from a very long time ago, because she's brilliant and came up with them. Also thanks to WillowDryad, who helped give the story a bit of direction several months before it was actually written.  
**…**Do you think I'll ever actually finish my prompts list?**

**Beta'd by trustingHim17!**

**Christmas with the Marshwiggles  
**(A lesson in decorating for Christmas with pessimists.)

"It's not funny, Edmund!"

"Are you sure it's not?" Edmund, bent over with laughter, wheezed as he questioned his older sister. Lucy, sitting beside him in the small room adjourning the library, had twitches tugging at the corners of her mouth, but she was doing her best not to join her brother in laughter since she could see Susan was truly annoyed.

"It's _Christmas_! Of all the times they want to come and help, why does it have to be Christmas?"

"It could be worse," Lucy interposed. "Imagine if they'd wanted to help at the Celebration of Spring?" Susan shuddered. "They'd spend the entire time predicting how many people would die before winter as we celebrated the renewal of life." Lucy's eyes were a bit far-away as she remembered her favorite holiday, but she came back to smile at her sister. "It's Cair Paravel. Christmas won't be _awful_, no matter what they do. And the Fauns are still bringing their music, and the Centaurs say we may even be able to hear the Stars sing, and Mrs. Gruse will still be in charge of the cooking. As long as her food is on the table, I doubt people will notice what the table _looks_ like."

"I will," Edmund said, cracking up again. "I'm sure I won't forget it for years!" Lucy gave him a pointed look, indicating Susan with her eyes, and he subsided. "It's a good sign they want to come and help, Su. They've been wary of leaving their marshes for more than half a day's travel for the past few years. This is a _good_ sign. They're coming and willing to stay overnight for a celebration. It's progress."

"But they do not _celebrate_," Susan protested. "How are the rest of us to celebrate if they are in charge of our merriment?" Edmund, his laughter dying away, looked more closely at her.

"I'm sure we'll manage," Lucy advised, handing Edmund the correspondence she'd been helping with and getting to her feet. "Nothing could truly spoil Christmas."

Edmund waited till Lucy left, then looked at Susan more seriously. "All right, Su, out with it. What really worries you about their visit?"

Susan looked away, absently scanning the shelves holding quills, paper, and envelopes. She should have known better than to come to her perceptive brother with this.

But she did want a better solution, and so she sat, drawing her skirts around her and folding her hands. "As you said, it's the first time the Marshwiggles—_any_ Marshwiggles—have visited us." Edmund nodded. "But all of us have been there, and their homes, their habits, are as merry as a Beaver on bath-day. Which means we can either have a merry Christmas, as is normal and seems right, and make them feel entirely out of place, or we can have a Christmas filled with doleful predictions and little laughter, and perhaps they will come again, after they see how much we want them here." Susan sighed. "I do not know how to balance the requirements of hostess for them, and serving the other Narnians that I _know_ will come again."

"What does Peter say?" Edmund inquired curiously.

"That the Narnians will make merry whether the Marshwiggles are here or not, for such is their nature." Edmund choked on another laugh, trying as he was to give his sister his full and serious attention. "Don't laugh so at this! I came for advice, not for such antics!" But Susan could feel her own lips beginning to twitch. Edmund's laughs, rare and full and good, restored her own good humor.

"He is right, you know. The Narnians will welcome them wholeheartedly and celebrate as wholeheartedly as they welcome them. But it is foolishness to worry about finding a balance for two weights that are not here to be measured yet, much less try to measure their unknown needs against each other," Edmund pointed out, though his tone was kind. "Perhaps it would be best to let them help with the Christmas Celebration as they've offered. That will make them feel that they are welcome here, and that this place is, to some measure, theirs. Then when the laughter comes they will see that laughter has its place in their lives as well."

Susan looked down at her fingers. "It is a good solution," she murmured.

"But?" Susan looked up, and he smiled at her. "I know you too well not to hear the objection you do not voice. But?"

"I do not want to let them decorate," Susan confessed. "I love Christmas. There is no other time Cair Paravel basks in such beauty. The color of the glass-covered candles cast over the warm stone walls, the smell of the pine and berry wreathes with every indrawn breath, the eager happiness of every face within its halls—there is a beauty at Christmas that sets my heart at ease, and lightens every load and task. It is a time to remember we live amid beauty in every tree and window. To surrender the making of such beauty to those who do not find…the same beauty, for I have seen their wigwams, takes a year-long hope within me and bids it cease."

"And takes your favorite time of year and bids it be less beautiful," Edmund added. He reached forward and took his sister's hands. "I would I could ease that loss, my sister, but when we opened our home to become Narnia's as well-"

"We lost the right to make it entirely as we alone would have it," Susan finished. She squeezed Edmund's fingers. "I must find beauty where in the corners it will still reside, then. And in the smiles that both you and Peter say will not cease, for all the pessimism of our guests."

* * *

Those particular guests arrived the next morning, three days before the Christmas celebration (called the Feast and Dance) was to begin. Susan saw them first, as she quietly shivered in the courtyard while accepting countless gifts of boughs and berries from Rabbits, Squirrels, and Birds (all very anxious to give their own gifts to further the Feast and Dance and thrilled when their Queen received them). The Marshwiggles were tall, with the very small bodies and very long, thin arms and legs common to their kind. The tips of their pointed hats stood taller than most Centaurs, and beneath it their straw-like hair hung over their shoulders like a second covering from the wind. Susan, watching them from the corner of her eye as she accepted the last gift from a chirruping Sparrow, noticed they had very dark, almost black berries decorating the crowns of their hats, and the Marshwiggle with much longer hair had a sash of dark red tied round her cloak.

"Thank you, good cousin, for such a gift. Such a perfectly circled wreath shall adorn the doors of Cair Paravel itself," she said, smiling at the Sparrow, who fluttered up and down in the way that Sparrows blushed. "But quickly to your home, for night is falling and it is cold!" She let the Sparrow land on her finger and launched him into the air, giving him the height to make it over the walls, and then turned to the two approaching guests.

"Be welcomed to Cair Paravel, good cousins! I am Queen Susan, the second of the Four."

"I am Gloomcloud, Your Majesty, and this is my wife, Doldrum," said the shorter-haired Marshwiggle, introducing them as they bowed. Susan's heart sank. Some of the Marshwiggles had lovely names—she'd met Riverreed, who admittedly hadn't been quite as lively as her name sounded—but others had very sad names, such as Dourfog, a name she'd heard mentioned. This was not a promising beginning for a merry Christmas.

But she was a Queen, and _their_ Queen, and it would not do to show it. "Be welcome, cousins, and come in out of the cold. How was your journey?" she asked, already heading towards the doors. She paused just outside them to hang the wreath on one of the iron knockers, then used the metal to knock and let the guards know to let her in.

"It could have been worse," a higher voice said. Doldrum sounded like water slowly moving over mud, while her husband sounded as dark and damp as the mud itself. "All of the signs said we'd have a snowstorm. Buried in it, I thought we'd be, and not found till spring."

"The clouds were many," her husband agreed. "It will be a dark and stormy night,* but we'll make the best of it. We can burn the furniture if we have to."

Susan firmly put the picture of a large fire in the courtyard out of her mind, refusing to dwell on the image of their halls entirely empty as their guests stood in dismay.

"We have wood enough for many cold winter days," she said pleasantly. "Please come in and enjoy the warmth."

"We could decorate these stairs with icicles," Doldrum remarked. "But they'd probably all break before someone saw them, I would think."

"Or the guests would slip on the stairs and break their limbs, and that might inhibit the dancing," Gloomgloud added. "But all decorating requires risk. The Fauns hang sprigs of mistletoe, and I knew one once where the mistletoe dropped and scratched his eye. He says he doesn't mind the scar, but he's making the best of it. He'll probably lose his sight completely by the time he's an old Faun. Permanent damage, that's what probably happened."

Susan had another image of the garlands they usually hung dropping on the dancers and them tripping and breaking limbs, or the trees within the castle falling on the smaller creatures, and-

She resolutely stopped. She was _not_ going to let the Marshwiggles pessimistic predictions worry her. "What are your ideas so far?" she asked.

"Berries," Gloomcloud put in. "On the doorways, and around the bottoms of the goblets."

"Oh, that would be so pretty," Susan exclaimed softly; the second idea was something she had not thought of before. "We've lots of berries stored, almost anyone can show you where." They were inside, and a few of the busy maids stopped and started to come over. Susan spoke to the nearest, a pretty Hedgehog. "Would you please show our guests to their rooms? Dinner will be served in about an hour," she added to Marshwiggles.

"We probably won't be able to eat any of it," Gloomcloud said.

Susan stopped the burst of impatience from coloring her words. "We asked what Marshwiggles like to eat, and have tried to have some of your usual foods. I'd like to try them myself tonight; but if there's anything we're missing, please let us know at once. We love making people feel at home," she added, much more easily, for the last was certainly true.

"Then you'll have a problem with overcrowding, I would think," Doldrum said sadly, shaking her head. "But you can always come and stay in the Marshlands, there's lots of room."

Susan bit her lip, absolutely refraining from the "I wonder why that would be?" muttered comment she _knew_ Edmund would have made, and merely curtsied and thanked them gravely. They bowed in return and walked away, their tall, snowed-on forms following the tiny Hedgehog.

A burst of giggles from up and to the right made Susan turn as soon as they were out of sight. Lucy, sitting two-thirds of the way up the stairs between Leo and Por,** looked down at her. "Susan, they're _awful_."

"I know," Susan sighed.

"I'm going to love them," Lucy said happily. Susan blinked at her. "I'm going to laugh so much more now that they're around." She stood, starting to laugh again. "Can you picture Edmund's reactions to the things they say?"

Yes, Susan could. And had. She felt her own smile begin. "That will be amusing," she admitted, walking towards the bottom of the staircase. "But I thought you were decorating your rooms today?"

"I was." Lucy started down at the same time Edmund's voice called to her from above, twisted to look, and missed her step. Leo and Por, in the same fluid motion, grabbed mouthfuls of her dress and held her till she regained her balance. "Thank you," she told them, and they let go. "And Edmund, that wasn't nice!" she called up.

"No, it was not," Susan agreed, panting from where she'd run up the stairs. "Lucy, you're all right?"

"Fine," she replied cheerfully.

"Sorry, Lu," Edmund said, coming down. "I didn't mean to. But I'm glad you're all right, because I think the two of you should come see this."

* * *

"This" was a series of barrels sitting next to the rooms that currently stored the Christmas decorations. Susan wrinkled her nose at the bitter, almost decaying smell. Beside her, Por choked, and Leo nudged him.

"What are they?"

"The Marshwiggles contribution to the decorations," Edmund said solemnly. He dissolved into laughter, unable to keep his straight face. "It's dye."

"For what?" Susan asked, startled. She ignored the movement beside her as Por crouched, knowing Leo would stop him from actually jumping on the barrels. A moment later Por's entire body drooped, properly chastised.

Susan appreciated that about Leo.

"For the Christmas decorations, of course!" Edmund replied. Susan closed her eyes, remembering the dark berries around the Marshwiggles' hats, and imagining them all. Over. Cair Paravel.

She ached for the beauty of Christmas.

"Why would they want to dye berries and branches?" Lucy asked curiously.

Edmund shrugged, and Lucy stole a glance at Susan. "Maybe there won't be enough for all of them," she said quietly.

"Well, I was thinking Leo and Por could help me with that," Edmund said. "If they were to help me move them…"

"And one of us were clumsy-" Por breathed excitedly.

"A few of them might spill," Leo finished.

There were definitely times Susan appreciated Por, too.

"I would be most appreciative," she told the Leopards. "Carry on." She turned to leave, and paused in the doorway as she inhaled the fresher air. "Make sure to bath after," she advised, and tried not to laugh when both Leopards growled softly as they realised what they'd signed up for. She watched, a small smile playing on her lips, as they held one of those silent conversations that led to Leo stepping forward. He pushed over the first barrel, jumping aside as quickly as possible. But not quickly enough! One foot slipped in the dark dye, and he slipped, rolling right over into the pooling liquid. Edmund and Por began to laugh very, very hard as Leo growled, getting up and looking down disgustedly. He looked half Leopard, and half Panther. Susan left before she could insult the Leopard by laughing as well.

That, at least, would be a lovely Christmas memory from this year. There was still laughter in the Cair.

OOOOO

*Quite obviously not mine. I couldn't resist. I have a feeling Dickens would have gotten along quite well with the Marshwiggles in some of his moods.  
**two Leopard brothers from my story "Loyalty." I had a few requests to see them more; I'm seeing if I can slip them in to other stories.

**A/N: There will be a part II. If you were wondering.**


	9. Christmas with Marshwiggles Part II

**Disclaimer: by all the claims of paper and patents, Narnia is not mine. By all claims of love and joy, I am Narnia's.  
Beta'd once again by trustingHim17, who is an incredible person and did so many of these ahead of time so I could post but take most of December off. Thank you so much!**

**Christmas with the Marshwiggles Part II  
**(A second lesson in celebrating Christmas with pessimists.)

The next few days were the strangest mixture of laughter and hidden, exasperated sighs for Susan. Their guests, up with the earliest of Cair Paravel's residents, had come to breakfast predicting their dyes would exude fumes poisonous for humans, or that the dye would weaken the stems of the berries till they broke and none would be left for decorating. They left to go re-decorate the decorations by dyeing them shortly after.

"Well," said Lucy at last, "at least they enjoyed their breakfast." Susan raised her eyebrows, and Lucy nodded towards the plates. "Look, they ate everything on them."

It was true. That was Susan's first lesson with her guests. She began to look at what they were doing, rather than what they were saying. The two spent the entire day dyeing berries, and though they verbally worried that none of the dye would hold, they sat back at supper, eating contentedly. Leo (finally clean, after a full day spent splashing in the sea, Por informed her) stayed well away from the two. Susan stopped by the chair where the Leopard perched.

"Are you well, good cousin?" she checked.

Leo looked up, his tail swishing slightly between him and the chair's back. "Yes, my Queen. I merely am no longer fond of the smell, and it still emanates from their clothing." Susan nodded, concealing her smile; the smell had nearly knocked her over when she'd greeted them, and it would have been worse for the Leopard. "They will be good for us, I think," Leo said, looking towards their guests. Por, who had been speaking about something (Susan was pretty sure she didn't want to know what) with Edmund, came running back, but paused when he saw his brother. Susan motioned him forward.

"Why do you think they will be good for us?" she asked Leo. Por's ears twitched forward.

"We remembered how much we had to thank Aslan for, that first Christmas. I thought less of it the next; still less, later. But to have them around reminds me how much goes _right_, as Aslan's own are on their thrones, and His seasons follow each other through our world."

Susan looked towards their guests too. The Marshwiggles were nodding dolefully at something a Dryad was saying; and the Dryad was laughing, exclaiming. Perhaps there was something in what Leo said.

"Thank you, good cousin," she replied, excusing herself. She went to ready herself for bed, but sat at the window, staring out at the wintery landscape, pondering the past few days. The first day had gone well; the next, however, they had begun decorating. And her heart still hurt with the idea that the places she usually made so beautiful would be covered in their dark, dour decorations. That all the beautiful things she loved would stay in storage, unseen, unused, their magic absent.

But the gift the Marshwiggles had already given to Leo, and perhaps to others - that would be worth that sacrifice. For that gift had a beauty of its own.

And they had already given much laughter, which was a Christmas gift indeed. Susan sighed, getting up and going to bed.

For all the gifts they gave, she found herself still craving the one she didn't expect to have.

* * *

Aware now that the two Marshwiggles were early risers, Susan rose early herself. She found the Marshwiggles in the storerooms, sorting the branches into piles. She noted wryly that the type they favored drooped and were darker than the ones she would have chosen.

"Good morning. Where are you going to decorate first?" she asked, as cheerfully as she could.

"The ballroom," Gloomcloud said. "It's the largest, and if we run out of time, as we're sure to, it will look ok half-done."

"Perfect!" Susan agreed. "I will work on the hallways, then?"

"You'll get a cold in a draft and have to skip the ball, I would think, but it must be done."

"Ask anyone you need for any help you'd like." Susan, scooping up a handful of their discarded branches, hurried out before they could change their minds. The hallways, at least, would be welcoming and breathtaking.

She stayed out of the ballroom all morning, spending most of her time in the hallways, though she ducked out to check the courtyard, which Peter and Edmund had agreed to decorate. They had the trees up and decorated, but the first time she came out, she found them in the middle of a snowball fight, with Leo, Por, and the three Wolf cubs who had adopted them* egging the two brothers on.

"We're decorating the courtyard with _branches_, not _snowballs_," she informed them, then ducked as a snowball flew over her head. "Peter!"

"I mistook you for Lucy!"

"That's not much better!" Susan scooped and formed her own snowball, hurling it at Edmund who'd been attempting to sneak up at her. He dodged, and, true to the Marshwiggles predictions, slipped on the steps, falling headfirst into a drift. Rena jumped right on top of him, giggling, and he rolled to throw her off, but the heavy Wolf didn't budge.

"Peter, help!" he gasped, and Peter and Susan ran forward, laughing, shoving the Wolf away, only to fall under the weight of her siblings. Leo and Por, joining, whirled the snow with their paws till all the (former) decorators were blind.

"Enough!" Susan called at last, shivering in her wet clothing. Peter began to take off his warm cloak, but Susan shook her head, teeth chattering. "I'm going inside. Try to have the rest done before you find another fight, if you would?"

"It will be lovely, I promise," Edmund said seriously. Susan looked at him and smiled.

"I'm sure it will."

* * *

It was. The courtyard, with seven trees along each wall, decorated with strings of bright red berries and glass-enclosed candles hanging from green branches, took Susan's breath away. The hallways, with bright red tapestries and green branches, and hung with Dwarf-made colored glass lanterns that filled the halls with every color Narnians had ever seen, filled her with delight as she walked them.

She did not enter the ballroom, nor the Great Hall, where the feast would be held. Those were the Marshwiggles' domain, and for tonight, she wanted to enjoy the beauty that was everywhere she and her siblings had decorated. She and Lucy skipped through the halls, giggling as they kept out of the cooks' and maids' way. Peter and Edmund found them there, and each grabbed a sister, dancing her through the rainbow-lit hallways. The boys accidentally shoved them into red tapestries at times when they spun the girls too far, it's true, but Lucy told them the tapestries made very nice cushions, and their evening was spent laughing.

It was a wonderful, wonderful Christmas Eve night.

The four siblings went to their separate rooms soon after, to put the finishing touches on their presents for their private gift-giving tomorrow, and then settled in to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast, Susan took a deep breath and made her way to the ballroom. She hesitated outside the door. But she had to see, to know, before the guests arrived. She opened the door. She stepped inside - and closed her eyes in defeat.

The walls were hung with grey tapestries between the windows; all the windows were covered in black curtains, darkening the room. Green boughs drooped over every window and around the sides, framing the curtains. Attached to the branches were berries, but the berries were almost black, thanks to the coloring of the curtains.

Glass balls hung in many different places, smooth, clear, and altogether colorless. From them hung ribbons of a dark, deep green. There was no red anywhere. It was, Susan decided, a decidedly Marshwiggle room.

"It's not enough," said a gloomy voice behind her. "There wasn't enough dye." Susan turned to see Doldrum standing in the hall behind her, and for once the Marshwiggle's stance matched her tone, her hands by her sides, and her head bowed. Susan felt a twinge of guilt for the barrels she'd seen Leo knock over.

"We could send for more," she offered, after a moment. Surely the ballroom couldn't look any worse.

"It wouldn't arrive in time," Doldrum said defeatedly.

"Well," said Susan, taking another moment to think. "How about mixing the red berries with the dark ones? I think it would make a lovely contrast."

Doldrum's head came up, tilting to the side as she considered. "It would be bright," she said doubtfully.

"Many Narnians enjoy bright colors," Susan encouraged.

"They do. It will hurt their eyes, no doubt, and make them want to leave far sooner, but perhaps we could mix some of the red berries in."

"Would you like my help?" Susan offered.

"You have other things to do, I would think," but Doldrum had stood straighter, and Susan took that as a yes. She spent the rest of the day with the two Marshwiggles - who were, she discovered, experts at twisting in berry stems, and at placing them just so. They alternated the dark berries with the bright ones, and Susan admitted it did, in the end, look lovely, especially around the goblets in the Great Hall. There they had decorated with brighter green tapestries, and it did not look depressing, especially since the food itself would add so much color. But Susan was scrambling for an idea to add to the ballroom.

"Do you think we could add silver string?" she asked the Marshwiggles suddenly. "Twirling it around all the branches, to make them more secure, and to add more light?"

The Marshwiggles thought about it for a moment, glancing at each other.

"It will take too long, and the guests would arrive while we're still decorating," Gloomcloud put in, but Susan could see his fingers twitching.

"And it would probably look bad with the red," Doldrum agreed. "But Her Majesty wants to try it."

"Only if you'd like it," Susan added quickly. She did, truly, want the Marshwiggles to enjoy their stay, and they had seemed happy - odd as that sounded for a Marshwiggle - with all they had done.

"Silver would fit for a castle." Doldrum was now looking around. "Where would we find some?"

* * *

Susan got the silver-colored string, glinting in the light, from an older storeroom with the help of one of the maids. She recruited several Squirrels and Birds, and the silver was twisted around curtains, branches, and tapestries in short order, and to her delight, the Marshwiggles added more and more of it, without ever adding too much. With the red berries and the sparkling string, the ballroom became much more cheerful - as cheerful as the Marshwiggles truly were.

And somehow, Susan thought, looking around, it still looked like a very Marshwiggle room, with its own, quieter beauty. A beauty that still satisfied her soul.

And now she was ready for it to begin, the first Marshwiggle Christmas. Together, with her siblings and their two honored guests, the six stood in a colorful hall and waited for the first of their guests to arrive for this, the Cair's first Marshwiggle Christmas, with its glorious mix of happy pessimism and dour beauty.

OOOOO

*from my story _Kidnapped_.

**A/N: And this concludes my Christmas stories for this year. Thank you so much for reading them - I mean that. It's so much more fun to write when I know people enjoy reading these. I did want to let people know I'll be taking a break through the next few weeks, but I should start posting again the second week in January. Till then: Merry Christmas, and God bless us, every one!**


End file.
